The letter of James is addressed to the twelve tribes in the dispersion, in other words to the Jewish communities scattered across the Mediterranean world. In its tone and content the epistle reads rather like a latter-day prophet, except that his insights into the nature of God bear the imprint of Jesus’ life and the experience of the Christian church. Just as the prophet Micah sets his experience of evil and judgment within the context of God’s faithfulness and compassion towards his people, so James remains confident in the ultimate purpose of the Lord, reminding his Jewish Christian readers that the Lord is compassionate and merciful, calling on them to be patient, like the farmer who has to wait for his crop to ripen.
In his Requiem, Brahms sets James’ appeal for patience – So seid nun geduldig – to a sunny triple-time melody, reflecting a mood of quiet confidence. It serves as a bridge between two quotations from I Peter, allowing the listener time to move from Peter’s solemn reminder of the fragility of all life – the grass which flourishes and then shrivels in a few days or weeks – to his otherwise rather sudden proclamation of the unshakeable permanence of God’s Word – aber des Herrn Wort bleibet in Ewigkeit. The transition, leading to the joyous concluding fugue to which the ransomed of the Lord sing and dance their way into Zion, is still dramatic, but the theme of patience has allowed us time for reflection. The third movement, which we heard tonight, makes a similar transition from solemn reflection on the fragility of life, through hope, to confidence in our ultimate destiny with God, safe from all pain and torment. Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand, un keine Qual rührt sie an.
Brahms composed his Requiem as he was struggling to come to terms with the deaths both of his mother and of Robert Schumann, his friend and musical mentor. His choice of texts was criticised at the time for not giving enough emphasis to the death and resurrection of Jesus as the grounds of our Christian hope. At the first performance this deficiency was remedied – as some thought – by the inclusion of the aria from Handel’s Messiah, I know that my Redeemer liveth, but a year later Brahms found his own response in an additional movement, in which the soprano soloist, accompanied by the chorus, sings words from St John’s gospel in which Jesus assures the disciples that their hearts will rejoice when they see him again. Altogether Brahms choice of texts gives expression to his confidence that the overriding context of Biblical hope, with which his requiem is infused from start to finish, has the power to transform our experience of grief and death. Notably, if we have the courage to carry on sowing good seed – living by the light of our Christian hope – even as we weep, we will eventually return to reap a joyous harvest.
What do we mean by the context of Biblical hope? What might it mean to live by the light of our Christian hope, even when our hearts are sad? Each of us lives a life that unfolds in accordance with its own pattern of events, some good, some not so good, some planned, some unplanned. We mould these events, if we can, into a narrative that makes some kind of sense of our lives, but if that’s all there is to life and death, then at the last we will collapse into meaningless oblivion. But most of us are here tonight because we sense, however tentatively and incoherently, that our lives have meaning within the wider context of a much bigger narrative, the overarching narrative of God’s plan for the world He has made. We believe that we live in a world which was made by a God who loves us, a God who loves us so much that he sent his own Son to save us. Beloved, you have seen how the Lord is compassionate and merciful.
Turning back to our readings, Micah writes out of a situation which looks utterly hopeless. The faithful have disappeared from the land (v 2), the bullies have taken over – the powerful dictate what they desire (v 3), trust has broken down completely even within the family. And he himself feels guilty. I must bear the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned against him (v 9). Yet still he hangs on to his faith in a God of compassion and mercy, a God who will vindicate his prophet because he delights in showing clemency (v 18), a God who will never give up on his people (v 20), casting their sins into the depths of the sea (v 19). Because that in the end is his nature. He loves them too much to give up on them.
The situation which James describes is not so different. He insists, rather too breezily for my taste, that faith has an easy answer to every problem life may throw at us (James 5.13-16). However, our reading opened with a vigorous tirade against the rich evildoers, the unscrupulous bankers and bully boys of his day, who had made themselves a comfortable living at the expense of those too poor and weak to defend themselves (James 5.1-6). It is this experience, which we may presume was all too common among the Christian Jews of the dispersion, that leads James to draw on the old Testament example of Job in urging patience on his readers as they put their trust in the Lord’s sense of compassion and mercy.
And then there was our psalm. One of the most precious characteristics of so many of the psalms is that they are written not from the lofty stance of a prophet thundering down at the evildoers from a great height, but rather from the point of view of the ordinary believer trying to make sense of his own bewildering experience. Tonight’s psalm swings between confidence and despair in a way with which many of us can readily identify. The psalm begins with a stalwart assertion of faith (Psalm 31.1-4), but as the writer pauses to consider all that is ranged against him, he falters and finally plunges into a black hole of despair (vv 5-10). His own sense of sin and guilt leaves him feeling weak and helpless (v 12). Grief and mourning have aged him (v 11). People cross the road to avoid having to talk to him (v 13). He has become so cut off from the ordinary converse of life that he might as well have died years ago and been forgotten (v 14). Yet he refuses to give up. My hope hath been in thee, O Lord: I have said, Thou art my God (v 16). Gradually his confidence returns. Giving thanks to the Lord for hearing the voice of his prayer (v 15) and showing him such marvellous kindness (v 23), he has enough confidence at the end to make his appeal to others: O love the Lord, all ye his saints … Be strong, and he shall establish your heart, all ye that put your trust in the Lord (vv 26-27).
Returning to Brahms Requiem, there is a Mothering Day moment in the fifth movement, as the soprano soloist sings of the trials and sorrows which afflict us here on earth, whilst the chorus accompanies her with a gentle repetition of the words: ich will euch trösten – I want to hug and cuddle you, as a mother hugs her child until he relaxes gratefully into her embrace. That is how tenderly God loves us. That is the context of divine compassion within which our lives are played out. It is because we know we can put our trust in that love that we can face life and death alike with hope in our hearts. Relaxing into the reassurance of that embrace, Brahms carries us from a first movement based on the beatitude which promises comfort to those who mourn, to a final movement in which the same theme is used to raise the stakes a notch higher. Selig sind die Toten. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. Yes, says the Spirit, they rest from their labours, for their deeds follow them.
Beloved, you have seen how the Lord is compassionate and merciful. Amen